Synchronized Drowning

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Sometime in life, you’ll be tempted to make assumptions.  But take a little advice from me, that’s not a very good strategy.

In 1966, I enrolled as a freshman at Furman University.  The campus, which originally rested on several acres on the edge of downtown Greenville, had been consumed by the growth of the city making expansion impossible.  The trustees made the decision in the

1950’s to move to a beautiful, remote site some fifteen miles north towards Travelers Rest under the shadow of Paris Mountain. 

Construction began and by the time I arrived, the school was still very much in transition.  There were classroom buildings, a dining hall, dorms, a library and an auditorium.  But, many of the facilities were either temporary structures or still on the drawing board.  Some departments struggled to meet their academic obligations. This was particularly true for the Physical Education Department which found it difficult to administer the curricula of everything from badminton to field hockey to bowling in the metal building at the far south end of the new campus.

My first two years of college in liberal arts focused on requirements which included Physical Education.  As I perused the syllabi of optional courses, my eye gravitated to one entitled “Synchronized Swimming – the Art of Water Ballet.”  Having achieved the level of soloist for the Greenville Civic Ballet during high school, I assumed maybe this might be a good selection for me, something with which I might have a leg up…..so to speak….maybe even make an easy “A.” I decided to sign up.

Since there was no pool on campus, the classes were held elsewhere.  Every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, I would wait outside the women’s dorm with several other girls for a bus to take us to the YWCA in downtown Greenville where we used their pool.  

I learned pretty quickly that the only thing ballet and “water ballet” have in common is music.  Where one uses the legs for strength, the other uses the arms.  In ballet, a pose is finished with graceful fingers extended.  In “water ballet,” a beautifully arched foot may be the only thing visible above the water.  I did have good arches, but that was about all. 

Every combination was a struggle.  I never could get the “walkover” without touching the bottom of the pool.  If I had to execute one in the deep end, I’d just sink out of sight. 

I can’t remember what things were called, but my most dreaded move required me to lie flat on my back, holding myself on top of the water by frantically moving my arms back and forth underneath, then tucking my knees up to my chest and extending one leg straight up with my toes pointed.  Once in that position, I was to lower myself under the water until my foot was the only thing in sight, turn 180-degrees, and raise myself back up to the surface, lower my leg and stretch out again.  The first half of the combination wasn’t too bad.  But, trying to bring myself back up was like pushing a tank up a hill.  Invariably, I’d have to forego the pose and come out of the water spewing and gasping for breath like a whale…..otherwise, I would drown.

That year, for some reason, Furman was chosen to host the Southeast Regional Synchronized Swimming Symposium.  Nationally recognized synchronized swimming programs from schools like University of Florida and Florida State entered teams.  It was a dubious honor for Furman, I thought, since the school didn’t even have its own pool.

In preparation for the event, our professor instructed us to pair up, select music, and choreograph a routine.  Then came the bombshell.  We learned that we would be swimming in front of judges in competition with these iconic programs.   

There was one other freshman in the group named Marilyn Marchman.  She and I decided to work together.  Mamaw Mary drove out to Furman one afternoon and took us to 3 Lakecrest so we could use the record player at the house.  Finally, after listening to band after band of Mamaw’s collection of 33 & 1/3s, we selected a piece that would work.  It was light and airy with sort of a circus atmosphere about it. 

Over the course of the semester, we practiced as much as we could and finally finished the choreography.  Our professor stressed to us the points on which we would be judged.  It was like the Olympics with marks for technical merit followed by artistic impression.  She suggested that we might be able to make up for our lack of skill with creativity. 

The thought wasn’t lost on us.  Marilyn and I decided that we would interpret our music as trapeze artists.  We deliberated about how we could “jazz” up the horrible black tank suits and bathing caps we had to wear.  Mamaw offered to make us a couple of red capes to wear for our entrance.  Then, she said, “Maybe some red tights would look good.”  Marilyn and I thought this was a very clever idea. 

The opening day of the symposium finally came.  The girls in my class boarded the bus for the “Y” with all of the enthusiasm of a group of convicts on their way to the electric chair.  Marilyn and I sat together.  Mamaw had come out to the campus the night before with our capes and tights.  We were as ready as we could be.

As the bus pulled into the parking lot, our professor met us.  She was all atwitter with the excitement of being in charge of such a momentous occasion.  We assembled around her to get the order of the program and our final instructions. 

No matter how old I am, I’ll never forget that day - the chlorine smell of the indoor pool; the sight of the judges seated in the balcony above it; the solid bodies of disciplined swimmers; the precision of the accomplished teams; and my dive into the brink!

Marilyn and I found ourselves sandwiched between the nationally first-ranked team from the University of Florida and the nationally second-ranked team from Florida State.  I’m not sure whether our professor was responsible for that.  If so, I could never forgive her.

Our music started with great fanfare.  Marilyn and I came confidently out of the locker room door, bowed to the audience as trapeze artists do, and took our positions at the edge of the pool.  On cue, we dramatically dropped the capes and dove into the pool. 

For the next four minutes, it was a matter of survival.  We had never rehearsed our routine in costume.  Therefore, we didn’t know that the minute we hit the water, the tights would stretch about a foot.  Every kick had what seemed like fifty pounds of dead weight on it.  It was all we could do to stay on top of the water, much less hold poses.  And, forget the beautifully arched point of the toe.  On “walkovers,” we’d point our toes and a foot of cloth would fling over afterward. 

It was absolutely the most embarrassing moment of my life.  The judges were very stalwart and kept their composure.  Everybody else who was watching must have been rolling on the floor.  FINALLY, the music came to a compassionate end.  Marilyn and I swam to the ladder, heaved ourselves up the steps, and slopped our way back into the locker room kicking the swollen tights ahead so as not to trip on them. 

As if the humiliation of the event itself were not enough, we still had to endure the “critique” from the judges.  All of the swimmers in our section of the competition assembled in a room.  Our professor ceremoniously announced each judge and their corresponding credentials.  As far as I was concerned, the local dogcatcher could have adequately scored our routine. 

“You were absolutely majestic,” the first judge began her remarks about us, “…….until you dove in the water.”   

Yes, my precious boys.  Don’t ever assume anything.  If I had not done so, I could have avoided the most humbling day of my life!